My saddle would be naked without you. You’re just an old strap of rolled leather buckled to the the D-rings, faded and worn, but you’ve been with me for years, through four saddles and three horses. We’ve been together long enough for me to call you my friend.
You were barely touched with James, even when he was a baby. With Graham you helped give me security when I thought a spook might be unfolding. Now with Bravo, it seems we go through stretches when I hold you in my hand more often than not, and I’m not exaggerating when I say you have saved my ass on more than one occasion in the recent past.
People have called you different names–grab strap, “Oh Shit!” handle, monkey grip–but let’s call a spade a spade, you’re with me when the times get tough, when hooves leave the ground, and when daylight appears between me and the saddle. Thank you for being there.
And now, a poem:
There once was a strap made of leather,
to keep me quite altogether.
When Bravo would buck,
You’d bring me good luck,
By keeping the ground to my nether!